A flicker of real flame - her first inside the stone walls - danced near rough-hewn tables, cast-iron kettles, bunches of leaves tied with twine. Warmth pressed against her face, mixed with the scent of rising dough, that rich, astonishing bread. She paused at the threshold, one breath drawn slow, then another, while a tightness behind her ribs began to yield.
Yet no one stood by the stove.
Just moments earlier someone had been here - you could tell by the signs left behind. The wooden spoon kept turning inside the pot, circling like it hadn't yet accepted being let go. On the table, a loaf rested, warm enough that tiny sounds escaped its crust now and then. Nearby, perched on a low stool, a drink sent up thin trails of vapor - hard to say which kind, but clearly poured not long ago.
Footsteps echoed down the hall. Gone before she turned the corner.
A silence filled the room as she stayed rooted by the counter, eyes tracing leftover crumbs and half-empty mugs. Heat from the hearth touched one cheek while the scent of baked dough hung thick. Then - without sound or warning - a deep part gave way, like stone splitting after years under pressure.
It wasn't anger she felt when the servants kept their distance. What moved inside her was something quieter - recognition, like one caged bird sees another. Their silence? A shield. Their averted eyes? Armor. To reach out to her meant risk, not from her hands - but his. Connection became hazard the moment his name lingered nearby. Her presence alone carried weight they could not afford to lift. They stepped around her like cracked floorboards - careful, not cruel. Fear didn't come from her voice - it came from whose shadow swallowed hers. Each avoidance whispered: stay unseen, survive longer. Understanding bloomed in stillness - not in words, but absence. She saw herself in their quiet retreats. Danger wore his face, not hers. It took time - years, maybe longer - for them to understand that staying unseen was best. Look downward. Complete tasks without pause. Stay out of sight. Most importantly, avoid any bond with what the Master cares about, since those concerns belong only to the Master, and stepping in - no matter how gently or kindly meant - always brought consequences.
She understood.
Finding herself cut off like that made it clear - she might as well have been invisible. Only Anya broke the silence, showing up without warning, locking gazes instead of looking away, treating her like someone real in a place full of hollow halls and quiet footsteps.
Jin Yeager beside Anya.
Heavy silence filled the room. What should've worked only made things worse.
---
On the fifteenth day, she came across the gardens.
She figured out how to get to them. That moment brought a flicker she hadn't felt since coming here, sharp and quiet. Because the gardens sat beyond. Beyond brick and hallways thick with silence. Past the weight that clung like damp cloth - the kind Jin Yeager left behind just by being near. Out there, space breathed. A roofless stretch where ground met sky, bare and raw. Even if clouds hung low. Even if frost bit at her boots. Just standing there did something.
A hidden door led inside - thin and tucked away behind cloth hanging in a hall downstairs, one she'd passed often, never seeing. It showed itself when she shifted her weight there, foot bent toward the floor, palm flat on woven threads - and found not rock but emptiness, an opening where block should've met touch. The path revealed only because movement brought discovery.
A flap of heavy cloth shifted under her hand, revealing what waited behind - a doorway, squat and weathered, its frame sagging from years of quiet decay. Not much taller than a child, it stood sealed with warped planks gone spongy from moisture. When pushed, it gave way to a passage carved from uneven rock, tight above and close on all sides. The air inside carried the scent of soil after rain, roots pushing through darkness, life working unseen. For about fifty paces it angled down, slow but steady beneath her feet. Then without warning, like a stage curtain yanked back at just the right moment, everything opened - blue expanse overhead, light pouring in.
The gardens.
Down the rocky rise where the old fortress stood, flat spaces spread wide under sunbleached stone. Stone steps linked each level, winding between broken barriers fallen apart over years. What once held grand order now slept under quiet decay - yet traces remained clear to Historia's eyes. Sharp lines in the soil hinted at strict layouts long abandoned. Paths of crushed rock, edged with stunted green borders, whispered of measured pasts. A single twist of shaped branches caught her eye first. Down below, where the land flattened out, stone steps led to what once had been a planned layout of roses. The plants had grown wild over time, stretching upward like tangled arms. Some stems were as wide across as her forearm. Each carried sharp spines ready to tear at cloth or skin. Yet even after so many seasons untouched, flowers pushed through - few but present - in late autumn air. Their shade matched something deeper than wine: raw, dark crimson, almost pulsing under gray sky.
Yet nature took back what it once gave. Where flowers once stood in order, weeds now ruled - thorny vines crept forward, stinging plants claimed corners, clumps of coarse grass split paved walkways, broke stone steps apart, dragged elegant trees downward through quiet force over years. Hedges loomed taller than meant, twisted past memory of shape, thick inside like tunnels where no one could pass. Trees shaped for beauty - perhaps cherry, maybe magnolia, another with thin peeling skin unknown to her - grew wild again, trimmed lines gone loose into chaos, limbs tangling overhead so tightly sunlight vanished below, leaving pools of cool green dimness instead.
What remained looked less like a planned space, more like a forest dreaming of ghosts - effort once shaped it, yet time undid every mark. Beauty lived there, yes, but like broken walls do: quiet, worn, speaking of loss without shame. Order had slipped away beneath tangles, under roots, into silence. What stood now bore no pride of completion, only the calm weight of having surrendered. Wildness took hold not as victory, but simply because stillness forgets how to resist.
Bare branches clawed at Historia's clothes as she forced her way forward, scratches rising on her skin where fabric pulled back. Urgency moved her feet, not beauty. Paths thick with growth gave little room, yet she pressed ahead anyway.